


Sister Mine

by orphan_account



Series: Sister Mine [1]
Category: Enola Holmes Series - Nancy Springer, Sherlock (TV)
Genre: Blood, Enola Holmes with a penknife is a bad idea, F/M, Gen, Guns, Matter of Life and Death, Stabbing, Swearing
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2014-06-30
Updated: 2014-07-08
Packaged: 2018-02-06 19:36:06
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings, No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 6
Words: 8,208
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/1869813
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/orphan_account/pseuds/orphan_account
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>A story told from the varying views of Enola, Sherlock, and Mycroft Holmes, with a few other characters thrown in there too.</p>
            </blockquote>





	1. Give Me Love

**Author's Note:**

> Enola Song:
> 
> Dirty Paws by Of Mice and Men
> 
>  
> 
> Sherlock Song:
> 
> Give Me Love by Ed Sheeran 
> 
>    
> Mycroft Song:
> 
> King by Lauren Aquilina
> 
>    
> I'm sorry, I haven't figured out how to italicize yet. If someone could tell me that'd be great
> 
> I'd love for people to leave comments :)

“Miss me?”

Reginald begins to cry, Mrs. Lane runs to his side to shush him, and Enola Holmes stands, transfixed, staring at a man she thought long dead.  
____________________________________________________________________________

“How the fuck-“

“Sherlock, calm down,”

“Why the FUCK would I do that?!”  
______________________________________________________________________________

“It’s my birthday!”

“Yes, Enola, it is-“

“Why the fuck would he come back on my birthday?!”  
________________________________________________________________________________

“We need to get to Bart’s this instant, Mycroft!”

“Sherlock, we are not flying there,”  
_________________________________________________________________________________

Mycroft Holmes steps inside Ferndall Mental Hospital, posture perfect, dressed impeccably, umbrella hanging daintily from manicured fingers.

“Mr. Holmes! A lovely surprise to see you, I-“

“Mrs. Lane, you know why I’m here. Take me to my sister,”  
___________________________________________________________________________________

The youngest Holmes sits with her back to the door, counting the rhythm in the footsteps outside. Slight limp, Mr. Lane, ex-army veteran, squeaky shoes, Reginald, his mum sent them yesterday, sure but quiet, Richie Lane, what a god, loud and sure, Mrs. Lane, of course, and- oh.

The door opens and in steps her brother. 

“Where’s Sherlock?”

“Most people begin with, ‘Hello’, Enola, when greeting family,”

“I’m not most people, Mycroft,”

Mycroft sighs, rolls his eyes, looks up to ceiling as if asking for patience, and begins to speak.

“We’re moving you to a boarding school. Pack your things,”

Enola turns around. “Excuse me?”

“We need to keep you safe.”

“And I’ll be safer in a boarding school than in one of the highest security mental hospitals in Britain?”

“Yes. We’ll move you without telling anyone-“

“No one but Mum, Dad, Sherlock, Mrs. Lane, who will tell Mr. Lane, who will tell Richie, the chauffeur, and very probably Anthea,” she pauses for a moment, “Hmm. Brilliant plan, Mykie. We’re all very proud.”

“Sarcasm doesn’t suit you, Enola.”

“And your nose doesn’t suit the proportions of your face, but I wasn’t going to say anything.”

Mycroft sighs again, turns around, looks at the floor as if in defeat, and then says, “I’m sending a car tomorrow, and you are going to get in it, Enola, like it or not,”

Enola stares at him, blue eyes too much like Sherlock’s, smart, bright, sharp, and clouded with an idea. “Very well, brother mine,”  
___________________________________________________________________________________________

“How can he possibly be back, it doesn’t make any sense-“

“I know.” Sherlock sighs. One to many people had come back from the dead. He’d rather be in southern Europe. 

With his brother travelling to Wales to see Enola, John and Mary being swaddled like they’re completely incapable of taking care of them selves (which Sherlock knew, from watching bullets fly from both their guns, was incorrect), everyone had somehow forgotten about Molly Elisabeth Hooper, who’d come bursting into 221b Baker Street, wet from the rain, and still in her lab coat. 

Molly sighs with him. She can see how stressed he is. “Nothing makes sense, Molly, and I can’t do anything without a lead-“

“I know,” is all she says, unconsciously mirroring him in her chair, leaning forward, elbows on knees. “It gonna be really hard from here on out, I think.”

She smiles, and Sherlock thinks it’s the warmest thing he’s going to see in a long while. 

“You should stay here,” he says suddenly, jolting her out of whatever thought she’d been in.

“What?” she said, in her distinctly Molly way, and Sherlock panics.

“Until Mycroft figures something out for you, I mean,” he says quickly, “So you’ll be safe.”

“Oh,” she looks at her hands, “Yeah, ok. Just until Mycroft figures something out.”

“Where is Mycroft, by the way?”

“He’s in Wales.”

“Wales?”

“Yes, Wales. He’s ‘figuring something out’ for our sister. She’s only 16, can’t hide herself.”

“I didn’t know you had a little sister, Sherlock.”

“She’s… not really around anymore.”  
______________________________________________________________________________________________________

Enola Holmes had gotten a package of unknown origin the night before she ‘set out for boarding school’. 

It had been hand delivered by a man in a black suit, and given to her by a crabby Mr. Lane in his pajamas. 

A drawing kit, containing paper, lead pencils, a penknife (presumably for sharpening them), and Indian rubber erasers, all cleverly arranged in a flat wooden box that opened into an easel.

A large book called The Meanings of Flowers: Including Also Notes Upon The Messages Conveyed By Fans, Handkerchiefs, Sealing Wax, and Postage Stamps.

A small book of ciphers. 

A note, which only said, ‘Happy Birthday, lots of love, Big Brother’. 

“Peculiar.” She mutters under her breath. She’d always liked ciphers and drawing, but The Meanings of Flowers et cetera confused her. 

Come to think of it, either of her big brothers sending her anything confused her completely.

And Mycroft had been here just this afternoon, so why not give the presents to her then?

To be honest, she almost threw the entire thing in the rubbish the second she saw it. With Moriarty’s return, and the stories she’d heard of him, she knew it could be a bomb. But curiosity won out, as it always did (in fact, that may well be why she is in a mental hospital), and in the end she opened the small book and began to decipher.

ALO NEK OOL NIR OUYSM UME HTN ASY RHC. 

A sentence would not have all words with three letters; combine them.

ALONEKOOLNIRUOYSMUMEHTNASYRHC

ALONE: ENOLA Backwards

Reverse it again.

CHRYSANTHEMUMSYOURINLOOKENOLA

CHRYSANTHEMUMS YOUR IN LOOK ENOLA

Backwards again.

ENOLA LOOK IN YOUR CHRYSANTHEMUMS. 

“What would be considered my Chrysanthemums?” she muttered to herself, before looking out her window. And then to the wall. 

And then to the painting on the wall. 

Blue Chrysanthemums, from the garden at home. 

Enola Holmes grabbed the penknife from the drawing kit, stood up, and studied the brown paper at the back of the painting. 

Recently replaced, three days ago, at the most. 

“Hmm.”

The knife slid through the paper like a razor blade though skin.

What she saw almost made her cry out. Almost.

A check.

A check made out to Enola Holmes.

A check for 100,000 quid. 

 

Holy fucking shit, she thought, I am one rich bitch


	2. Somewhere Only We Know

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Enola goes to visit her brothers grave, Sherlock and Molly have breakfast, and Cooper the chauffeur gets his arse kicked.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Enola Song:
> 
> Somewhere Only We Know by Lily Allen
> 
> Sherlock Song:
> 
> Holes by Passenger
> 
> Mycroft Song:
> 
> Night Bus by Lucy Rose
> 
>  
> 
> Still don't know how to italicize. Still sorry. 
> 
> Hope you like it.

In the morning, Enola Holmes packed her Sailor Moon poster, donned black skinny jeans and a t-shirt that said ‘Today is a waste of makeup’ in Comic Sans on the front, and made her way out towards the black government car Mycroft had sent for her with a check for 100,000 quid stuffed into her bra.

3, 2, 1.

‘Say Something’ by A Great Big World erupted from her phone. She couldn’t help but smirk.

“Mycroft! Couldn’t make it to see me off, could you?”

She could hear him rolling his eyes, “Enola, if you feel if you need to be placed back into a mental hospital, then call, immediately. And do not try and break out of school again. Or kill anyone.”

“When have I ever showed signs of wanting to kill anyone, Mykie?” she says, innocently, smiling to herself. Ah, memories.

“I-“

“Goodbye, brother mine.”

***********************************************************************************************************************************************************************

She let the car drive for ten minutes, and tapped then the chauffeur (Disabled wife, dyslexic, good with kids, two jobs) on the shoulder, just as Kineford City cemetery came into view. 

“I wish to say goodbye to my brother.” She says, putting her hand on the door handle.

“I’m not supposed to let you out, Miss. Holmes,”

“I wish to say goodbye to my brother,” she says again, tears filling her eyes this time, “Please, sir, I may never get to go his grave again,”

The chauffeur reacts as she knew he would, “Oh, yes, Miss, of course, Miss”

“Thank you. Come pick me up in ten minutes. You can have a pint in the local pub in that time, don’t you think?”

***********************************************************************************************************************************************************************

It was not a complete lie- she did intend to visit her brothers grave- but only because she’d hidden a bike in the crypt he was buried in (his was a wealthy, large family- they could afford a crypt) . 

She took off from Sherringford Holmes’ grave fast as lightning, knowing no one would look for her where she was going- not London, not the very place both of her brothers resided.

***********************************************************************************************************************************************************************

“It’s not science if you don’t write it down, Sherlock.”

“It’s science if it involves chemicals, Molly, and you know it.”

Molly laughs, “Food isn’t chemicals, Sherlock. You aren’t doing any kind of science. You’re just making me breakfast,” she says, teasing.

“Well,” Sherlock Holmes replies, “Don’t tell anyone,”

***********************************************************************************************************************************************************************

“For goodness sakes, Cooper, you had one job!”

“Yes sir, I know sir,”

“You didn’t even need to get out of the car, you just had to drive her there!”

“But sir, she was crying sir, I don’t like it when girls cry sir, it makes my insides go all funny sir!”

“That’s not my problem Cooper!”

***********************************************************************************************************************************************************************

The Meanings of Flowers had been to large a book to fit in her suit case (which contained her drawing kit, a wig she’d procured from Reginald’s dress up box- dark brown, and cheap, but it made her look like someone who wasn’t her, so it would suffice, some clothing, and the book of ciphers- for enjoyment, if nothing else) so she’d hidden it, along with a pencil marked map of Wales, under her pillow.

Her brothers were terribly easy to trick, simply because they thought she was stupid. It was fantastic.

It did not take her long to find a village far enough away from Kineford City for it to be safe for her to stop and change, and book a train ticket to London. 

She was sitting in a café drinking coffee so hot it didn’t taste like coffee, when she saw the headline of the local newspaper- “Youngest Tewksbury snatched from Basilwether Hall!”

Come on, Enola, says a voice that sounds a little like Sherlock’s, Go have some fun, solve a case, you can be home before dinner!

I’m not going home, she whispers back to herself, putting down her coffee cup and standing, And my train is going to be here soon, so I am going to get changed into my disguise before Mycroft gets here. 

***********************************************************************************************************************************************************************

Trains to London always amused her- you meet some strange people on trains anyway.

“Newly wed, are ye?” says a practically toothless old woman sitting next to her.

Nod.

“And now you’re going to London?”

“My husband got a job there.” She replies, quiet. Quiet was generally a good cover. 

“Well, ye know London, cannae get a job there fer love ner money. If you’re in need of somethin’, just come te’ Culhane’s Used Clothing, on Saint Tookings Lane, off Kipple Street. Ye’ll earn a pretty penny there, duckie.”

“Thank you.” Enola replies, smiling slightly. The strangest people in London. And she was going to be one of them.

***********************************************************************************************************************************************************************

“Mr. Holmes!” shouts a distraught Anthea, as she runs up the stairs, practically pushing a surprised and confused Mrs. Hudson out of the way.

Sherlock looks up from the blood sample Molly had given him before she’d dashed off to work (she apparently carried them around with her- Sherlock could get used to her being around), also confused.

“Yes?” he asked, perhaps rudely, he wasn’t sure (John wasn’t there, Molly wasn’t there- how did normal people tell?).

Anthea stood, breathless and scowling for a moment, before she said, “Enola’s gone missing.”

Sherlock blinked.

“Enola. Your little sister. The one Mycroft was shipping off to boarding school this morning.”

“Oh.” He said. “What do you mean she’s gone missing.”

“Well,” Anthea says, sitting at the table and pouring herself some tea, “She’s probably run away. The chauffeur let her out so she could go to Sherrinf- to your big brothers grave and she never came back,”

“Enola was five years old when Sherringford died. She could barely remember him.”

“The chauffeur didn’t know that did he?! And Mycroft says she can’t have gone far, given he only mode of transport was a bike she’d put together herself.”

Sherlock rolled her eyes.

“I think my brother is forgetting something, cousin.”

Anthea smiles before asking, “And what would that be?”

“Enola Holmes was in a mental asylum for a reason. She was too clever for her own good.” He pauses, “As we all are. She could be half way to Scotland now, if that’s what she wanted.”

“They found a map of Wales in her room.”

“Decoy. She’ll most likely head for Oxford. Our parents are there. Possibly Yorkshire, where we were born. She knows it well enough to get around.”

“Now you’re forgetting something, Mr. Holmes.”

“And that is?”

“She’s your sister.”


	3. Rumour

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Enola confuses, Mycroft worries, and Sherlock tries to figure something out.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Enola Song:
> 
> Rumour by Chlöe Howl
> 
>  
> 
> Sherlock Song:
> 
> Riptide by Vance Joy
> 
>  
> 
> Mycroft Song:
> 
> Paper Heart by Chlöe Howl
> 
>  
> 
> OK so I really like this chapter and I hope you do too.
> 
> Please leave comments.

Mycroft Holmes was not an easy man to trick. Which is why he knew that Enola was not going to stay in Wales. 

He did not, however, understand Sherlock’s tip that she would be heading for Oxford or Yorkshire- until the phone was passed to Anthea and she explained that, due to some internalized sentiment, Enola would probably head towards places she knew, rather than jumping into somewhere like Scotland, which she didn’t not know at all. 

His little sister was a hard person to understand. She had never made sense to him- of course, that didn’t mean that he didn’t adore her. From the day of her birth, Mycroft Holmes had promised, himself and his mother, that she would be cared for. He only wished he’d done a better job of it. 

Which is why he was trying so hard to find something that could lead them towards her. All the villages in a 50-100 mile radius were being checked this very moment for a blonde teenager on a bike, possibly looking slightly disheveled.

He’d gone to Sherrin- his brother’s grave himself, to the surprise of Sherlock, who was two minutes from getting on a train and going there himself.

No signs of any plan- but then, this was the youngest Holmes. They seemed to be getting more inventive as they go on.

He paused a moment longer, staring at the headstone in the ground. It was similar to Sherlock’s- black marble, gold writing, still shining after 11 years (not out of luck- the groundskeeper was being paid double his normal salary to keep it clean). 

Mycroft Holmes got into his chauffeur driven car and didn’t look back to his dead brother.

***********************************************************************************************************************************************************************

Sherlock looked at the clock, once again- Molly’s shift ended an hour ago, but she always worked past that time (“I like my job,” she’d told him once, “What’s the point of doing something you aren’t getting paid for if you enjoy what you do to earn money?”). 

She wouldn’t stay after time now though. Not knowing he’d kill himself worrying about her.

He stood, buttoned his jacket, grabbed his coat, and began to make his way to St. Bartholomew’s Hospital to collect his pathologist.

***********************************************************************************************************************************************************************

Enola Holmes felt unbelievable small in a place so big.

Mostly, however, she felt a need to find a way to cash in her check

Of course, she did wonder whose money it actually was. How ever, she cared more about being able to eat than she did about moral integrity, so she made her way to the nearest bank.

***********************************************************************************************************************************************************************

“Enola Holmes.” She said for the second time to the man at the counter.

“Holmes?” he said, “Like the detective?” 

“Yes.” She sighed, “I’d like to put this in my bank account.”

 

She’d snuck into the computer room last night and made two bank accounts; one for Enola Holmes, and one for an Ivy Meshle.

Ivy, meaning fidelity, because it was important to remain loyal to her family- even though she’d run away and was possibly using her brother’s arch nemesis’s money to buy a flat. 

It was lucky you could transfer money online- what was unlucky was that they could tracked.

It was easily solved- she’d put Enola Holmes’ address as her parents house, Sherlock and Mycroft would recognize that easily enough.

Ivy Meshle’s address, however, had been a hard one.

She’d signed up for email instead of paper, but email could still be tracked, so it was Internet café’s for anything involving that first email- it would be simple enough to make another one and buy a laptop.

But yes, Ivy’s address was complicated.

When they found The Meaning of Flowers under her pillow, they’d figure out her flower code. Meshle could be solved easily, if people actually thought. 

When Enola Holmes transferred money into Ivy Meshle’s bank account, things would get terrible close cutting.

How ever, if Ivy Meshle used several ATM’s across the country- she could nick a ticket off of someone to anywhere- then she’d be untraceable. 

And then, if shiny haired, brunette newly wed Ivy Meshle and blonde, on the run Enola Holmes disappeared with 100,000 quid, they could go anywhere. 

And then Viola Everseau would be born.

French in origin, Viola Everseau had recently moved to London from Coventry in hopes that she could get a job at one of the fashion magazines on Fleet Street. 

It’d be easy enough of the find a well made wig somewhere, contact lenses, and blend in with every other young, professional woman in London.

So really, her address didn’t matter at all. 

***********************************************************************************************************************************************************************

“A bank account was active under the name of Enola Holmes… five minutes ago, sir.” Says Anthea

“Where?”   
“Birmingham, sir.”

“Send a team out there, get them to track it to the bank.”

“Yes, sir.”

It worried him. How easy it was to find her. Really, he was disappointed. He was expecting more of a chase from his little sister.

***********************************************************************************************************************************************************************

His phone rang out in the dark hallway leading to the morgue.

“Yes, Mycroft?” He was impatient. He needed to see that his Molly was safe, that Molly wasn’t dead in a cupboard somewhere in the building.

“We think we’ve found her. Bank account in Birmingham. Disappointing, really,”

“Yes.” Sherlock said, “And if it isn’t her?’

“We’ll keep looking, I suppose.”

Sherlock smirked, “Goodbye, brother dear.”

***********************************************************************************************************************************************************************

She heard a baritone voice coming from outside, sending shivers down her spine. Only one persons voice could do that to her.

She popped her head through the doors just as he put his phone back in his pocket.

He smiled at her, relief and affection- no, something else, something she couldn’t quite place- flickering through his eyes.

She learnt to ignore the way his eyes made her tummy do backflips.

“Hey.” She said, smiling wider.

“Hello.” He said in return, smiling back.

The moment neither of them spoke was full of more words than any sentence of either of theirs could share.

“Did you need something?” she sighed, beginning to regret agreeing to stay with him. She missed her cat. She’d texted her neighbor, told her to look after him.

“Only you.” Is what he said, making her heart lurch out of her chest. She wouldn’t be surprised if could hear it (even though that is impossible unless you have your ear on someone’s chest… she was a pathologist, she knew what was true and what wasn’t) 

“Whatever could you need me for?”

“You’re late home. I was worried.”

She almost laughed. Five years ago he’d forgotten her name, and now he was worried. Time was a brilliant thing.

“Oh.” Was all she could say, “Let me get my coat.”. 

***********************************************************************************************************************************************************************

She didn’t realize he’d called Baker Street her home until late that night, curled up on the sofa (John’s room had been converted into a library almost as soon as Sherlock realized he’d vacated it- he was now paying rent for two people, because Mrs. Hudson could barely rent it out filled with books, could she). 

She almost wished he’d offer her his bed. She wasn’t going to ask to sleep with him. But she’d begun to miss a body beside her. And when he’d stopped coming to her place to sleep in her bed (always with her in it) it had gotten worse. 

But she was Molly and he was Sherlock and no matter how many times they’d share a bed they’d never share a bed and maybe if she wasn’t an idiot who got engaged to people she didn’t even like and he wasn’t.. whatever he was, then they could be together but that was the world they lived in and she’d never forgive herself for that (even though she hadn’t done anything).

***********************************************************************************************************************************************************************

He was only in bed because Molly was on the couch. 

And he had begun to think that if she was in his bed then maybe he wouldn’t want to be doing science experiments instead of sleeping. Maybe he’d want to do something else instead of sleep but she wasn’t there and he’d made his choice and she’d just broken up with her fiancé and even he knew it was a bad idea to make a move on someone just after they’d broken up with someone they loved and the thought of Molly loving someone who wasn’t him made him want to cry for some reason and nothing made sense.

He missed how it was before. In fact, for once in his life, he’d like to go back.

Back to how things were before the Fall.

Except he’d keep flirty, confident-but-still-sort-of-shy Molly and Mary and Enola doing a runner because as much as he wanted her to be safe, she deserved that at least. Some semblance of life. 

And he knew that if he did go back and keep all those things, he’d snog Molly senseless the second he saw her, and he’d beg a picture of the scan from Mary and he’d find his sister and maybe buy her one of those slogan t-shirts she liked so much (for some absurd reason). 

But he’d made his choice and Molly would never forgive her self for snogging him so soon after a breakup (even though she’d done nothing wrong) and she was on the couch and he was in his bed and confused about things he should have been confused about as a teenager but he was to busy trying to live and slow himself down rather than do something resourceful like /figure his fucking sexuality out/ and that was something he’d never forgive himself for (and he’d done plenty of things wrong).


	4. Fireflies of London

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Enola Song:
> 
> Dilaudid by the Mountain Goats
> 
>  
> 
> Sherlock Song:
> 
> Iou by Tom Milsom
> 
>  
> 
> Mycroft Song:
> 
> Fireflies of Montreal by Laurena Segura

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Enola makes new friends, Sherlock loses something (quite possibly his integrity), and Mycroft has to deal with people who have feelings, which he honestly does not have time for right now.

Sherlock seemed subdued.

Which was never a good thing.

“You alright, Sherlock?” says John Watson, leaning back against the table his best friend is working at.

“What?” Sherlock says, lifting his head from his microscope a little too fast, “YesI’mfinewhywouldInotbefine?”

The doctor takes a step back from him, before the sound of Molly yelping in pain draws them away from each other.

“Molly?” Sherlock says, almost knocking his chair as he stands.

“I’m fine,” Molly says, “Cut my finger through the gloves, that’s all.”

“Here,” John says, “Let me see it.”

“Thanks.” She says, smiling at him, and John can practically see Sherlock’s heart fluttering. He smiles down at Molly’s hand as he sticks the plaster to it.

*********************************************************************************************************

“It wasn’t her, Mr. Holmes.” Says Anthea, looking disheveled. “Or, if it was, she wasn’t there.”

Mycroft can do nothing other than lower his head to his hands and sigh.

*********************************************************************************************************

London.

London was interesting.

What was especially interesting was how different the chloroform smelt.

“Well, hello.” Says a voice from the corner of the room.  
She sat up so hard she hit her head on the corner of the radiator she was handcuffed to.

“Ouch.” She said, rubbing her head with the hand they hadn’t handcuffed.

“You know,” says the voice, “For the sister of a famous detective, you can’t be that smart.”

“I’m sorry?” she said, “Who exactly are you?”

“Vinette Tewksbury, at your service.” Her voice was dry and sarcastic. It reminded her too much of her own.

You’ve only been in London ten minutes and you’ve already gotten yourself kidnapped and-wait.

“What did you say your name was?”

“Vinette Tewksbury,” he said slowly, as if she was stupid.

“Tewksbury.” She said, “You’re the politician’s kid. The one who was kidnapped.”

“Yes.”

“I almost broke into a crime scene for you.”

“What?”

Her next sentence was cut off by the door opening, and a tall, red headed woman dragging a girl not much older than Enola by the arm into the room.

“Well then,” says the woman, “Glad to see you’ve woken up.” 

“Who are you?” Enola says, eyes flitting across the woman’s form s quickly as possible- Only child, spoilt, slight psychopathic tendencies, but not terribly so, being paid.  
The woman just laughed, handcuffed the girl to a pipe, and shut the light out.

*********************************************************************************************************

“Please, Mr. Holmes, you have to help me!” says Lady Alistair, almost on her knees in front of Mycroft.

“I am sorry, Miss. Alistair, but my brother isn’t taking clients at the moment!”

“Yes, I know, his housekeeper told me, but you must speak with him.” She broke down into loud sobs. Mycroft gave her a tissue after rolling his eyes.

“He is busy.” He says, leaning back on his desk and crossing his arms.

“With what?”

“With his arch nemesis. Try the police.”

“I have, they’re ‘looking into it’, but I need her now! I need my daughter back now.”

She clutched at his jacket, blinking beady brown eyes at him.

“There is nothing I can do, Mrs. Alistair. Good day.” He nods to Anthea in the corner of the room, and sits down as the sobbing woman is led out of the room.

*********************************************************************************************************

The girl was, decidedly, pretty, and rich.

Teal eyes, sand coloured hair, white skin, and smudged make up. 

“Were you leaving a party when they took you?” Enola asked, nodding her head towards the girls’ thigh-length black dress.

“Yes,” the girl says, sobbing, “I was walking with a friend, and he…” she paused, letting out a loud cry, “He attacked me, and then I was here.”

Enola sighs. Crying people were not her forte.

She furrowed her brow at the girl.

“No you weren’t.” she said, “You’re lying.”

The girl cried louder.

“Vinette-“

“Tewky.” She said, “People call me… Tewky”. Enola rolled her eyes. They were going to fall out of her head, if she did that much more. 

“Tewky. You’re a runaway, aren’t you?”

“How do you know that?” Tewky’s hooded blue eyes narrow. 

“It’s obvious.” 

“How ‘obvious’”

Enola sighs, “You’re clothing, dark, as if you needed to leave at night, but it’s expensive, not your nightwear, obviously. Your hair is meticulously styled, you didn’t have time to take it out before you left your home. Why did you come to London?”

“I want to be a pilot. My parents don’t approve.” 

Enola rolled her eyes, yet again.

“Who are you?” she asks the girl, who’d stopped crying to pay attention to Enola. 

“Cecily. Cecily Alistair.”

Enola closes her eyes, focuses on where she’d heard that name before- Oh. Christmas dinner, the year before Sherringford died. Mycroft in a paper hat.

*********************************************************************************************************

“The Alistair’s have a girl about Enola’s age. Not nearly as clever, though.”

Sherlock, fresh out of rehab, sitting in the corner, moody until his little sister approaches carrying a hardback book. He pulls her onto his knee, smiling.

“Who’re the Al-i-stair’s?” she asks, opening the book.

“A political family. Powerful.”

“Oh my god.” Enola says out loud. “You ran away too, didn’t you?”

Cecily sniffs. “Yes. I wanted to see London. The parts of it that weren’t the best, I mean.”

Enola scoffs. 

“How did you know?”

“Balance of probability. We both ran away. You were being led on by this ‘friend’ who attacked you, I was just sent instructions-“

“I was seduced by a woman in a red dress who promised to teach me to fly.”

“Precisely.” Enola replies, making escape route’s in her head. 

“Who is it?” asks Cecily.

“I would bet my life it’s Moriarty.”

“You might have to.” Says Tewky, as the door opens. 

*********************************************************************************************************

When Sherlock gets back from the hospital (with John and Molly in tow), he is not confused by the DVD placed on the doorstep. He does not pause before putting it into his laptop, beckoning for Molly to sit down next to him to watch as John disappears to call Mary and tell her to come over to Baker Street.

The video begins.

“Alright, Sherly,” says a familiar voice as John puts his phone down. A door opens on the screen and Sherlock’s eyes narrow.

Three girls, one with bleached white hair, one sandy, one- 

“No.” he says, biting his lip.

“You have three hours from the beginning of this video,” Jim Moriarty’s smirking face appears on the screen, “For every hour you don’t find them, I’ll kill a girl.” Molly’s fingers find his own, somehow knowing without asking who one of the girls is.

“I’ll even be nice,” the Jim says, “I’ll kill her last.”

The screen cuts to black and Sherlock shuts his laptop.

“Sherlock?” John asks, “What was that?”

“That,” Sherlock says, “Was my sister.”

*********************************************************************************************************

“It isn’t a live feed, so we can’t track it.” Anthea says, tapping away on her phone. 

Molly is still holding his hand, and, for some reason, he still holds tight to hers, even as Mycroft and Mary and Lestrade pile into the room.

“We’ve got people all over the city.” The DI says, “Every abandoned building in London is going to have cops in it by the time the sun goes down.”

“We have three hours.” Mycroft says, “Less than that, now. I suggest you do something, little brother.”

Sherlock winces. He hates Mycroft for calling him that, “What do you want me to do?” he lets go of his Molly, stands, “There is nothing in that room that can tell me where it is.”

“You’re a detective. This is what you do.”

“I can’t pull clues out of thin air, Mycroft!”

John steps between them, as he always has (It seems to Sherlock that he’s been there since Sherry’s death, even though they’d met 6 years after)

“Not now.” Is all he says, and Sherlock cannot stand the room any more, so he runs, as he always has, down the stairs, to think in a place with less people.

*********************************************************************************************************

John looks almost offended, before saying, “Yeah. Well done, Mycroft. You’re such a great big brother.”

“I was simply trying to spur him into some action.”

They are so busy arguing that no one notices Molly Hooper slip from the room, after her detective.


	5. Early Christmas Present

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Enola breaks something, Sherlock finds a new flatmate, and Molly finds a permanent place to stay.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Enola Song:
> 
> Early Christmas Present by Kate Nash
> 
>  
> 
> Sherlock Song:
> 
> Sex Yeah by Marina and the Diamonds
> 
>  
> 
> Molly Song: (Because there's barely any Mycroft in this chapter, which is sad)
> 
> Nine in the Afternoon
> 
>  
> 
> And introducing two new characters:
> 
> Tewky Song:
> 
> No Strings by Chlöe Howl
> 
>  
> 
> Cecily Song:
> 
> Primadonna by Marina and the Diamonds

Cecily was still crying quietly in the corner, and Tewky was trying desperately to break her handcuffs, whereas Enola was trying to hypothesize a way to get out.

Simple break of the wrist would do it. Have the get the others out as well, can’t expect them to break their wrists too- well, perhaps Tewky, but you never really know. Problem would be actually getting out; next time the door opens someone’s going to have a gun in his or her hand, and none of us are exactly trained in disarming someone. 

Enola took a deep breath- Ok, twist wrist backwards towards yourself, and just wing it from there.

She twisted her body so most of it was facing her wrist, lifted her right hand, let her left go limp, and jerked her hand backwards.

It was all she could do to stop from crying out by biting her lip so hard it bled-

“WHAT THE FUCK DO YOU THINK YOU ARE DO-“

“Shut up!” Enola squealed, bring her hand up to wipe blood away from her chin, and lowering her voice to a whisper, “The next time someone comes in here, they’re going to have a gun, do you understand?”

The other girls nod.

“And that gun is not for show, alright? One of you is going to get shot, okay? Unless we do something.”

They nod again, though are both significantly paler. 

“Okay,” Enola Holmes says, mostly to herself, “Let’s think of something.”

**********************************************************************************************************************************

He’s been in Molly’s flat for ten minutes when she opens the door, petting her cat as she puts her bag down.

He hadn’t really thought of a way to save his younger sister’s life.  
Genuinely, he didn’t know how he was going to stop her from dying.

All he knew was that in almost fifteen minutes one of the girls was going to be shot and there was nothing he could do about it. Not without an actually clue. 

Molly doesn’t ask him if he’s alright, just gives him Toby and goes to make tea. 

“There’s nothing I can do.”

“There’s plenty you can do.” She says, sitting down in her chair (next to the bookshelf, close to the fire, favourite place in the whole flat) “You could go out yourself and look for her, you could talk to your homeless network, you could pull something out of thin air like you would normally.”

“Then why haven’t I?” he asked, maliciousness lacing his voice with ice.

“I think you care too much,” she answers, as Toby climbs up the back of her chair, “I think that because she’s your little sister you know if you get it wrong she’ll die.”

“You have to focus, Sherlock,” Molly says, sipping her tea, “Moriarty likes to get in your face. He likes to make things personal. It’s not just your sister, is it? He’s taken her somewhere important, somewhere he knows matters to you.”

Sherlock thinks on this. “That makes sense.”

Molly raises an eyebrow, as if to say, Yeah, I know.

**********************************************************************************************************************************

She watches his eyes flicker under his eyelids, thinking that, just maybe, she’d saved his little sisters life. 

**********************************************************************************************************************************

“We have three minutes.” Cecily says, looking down at her diamond encrusted watch.

Enola swallows. 

“I hope you’re ready for this, Granola Bar,” says Tewky, “’Cause if you’re not, someone’s gonna die.”

Enola rolls her eyes at the nickname, but smiles. “I’m ready.”

“One minute, thirty seconds.”

“’K” Enola says, holding onto her wrist, getting ready to twist it out of the handcuffs the moment whoever-it-was-that-came-to-kill-them’s back was turned. 

Her other hand reaches into her sock to grab the tiny penknife that the red headed woman had not found. Tiny, she thought, But fatal if used right.

**********************************************************************************************************************************

“The warehouse!” Sherlock Holmes cries, rushing through the door of his flat, “The warehouse with the kids!”

“What?!” asks Lestrade, standing from his seat next to Mycroft.

“The last case before I died.” Sherlock says, lowering his voice, “We’ve got about twenty seconds before the first girl dies, but it won’t be Enola, that’s what matters!”

“Well,” says the Detective Inspector, “I am sworn to protect London’s population in general, but think what you like, mate.”

Sherlock Holmes rolls his eyes, shares a look with his pathologist, and puts on his coat.

************************************************************************

The door opens; light pouring in and blinding Enola for a moment, before she sees red hair and long legs, and realizes she won’t have the pleasure of stabbing Moriarty.

“Alright, then, shall we get started?” the woman asks, loading the gun, and standing in front of Cecily, who is either terrified or a brilliant actress. 

It takes would take less than thirty seconds for a bullet to reach Cecily from a foot away. Maybe less than two.

It takes Enola Holmes three seconds from the moment the red headed woman’s back is turned to wrench her hand from the handcuffs, it takes her four to stand, and five to revel in the look of surprise on the woman’s face as she is stabbed in the pulse point on her neck. 

Tewky looks as if she’s going to be sick, and Enola can’t find the keys for the handcuffs on the woman choking on her own blood, so she stands, fire two shots at the rings of the handcuffs that aren’t attached to her new friends, grabs their hands, and runs.

**********************************************************************************************************************************

It’s ten minutes later that Sherlock and his ‘team’ reach the warehouse, with Moriarty long gone, obviously (He doesn’t like to get his hands dirty). 

The red headed woman lying on the floor finished choking on her own blood moments after they arrived, Molly crouching down next to her, trying to keep her calm, before Sherlock puts a hand on her shoulder and she stands.

“She should have aimed for the stomach,” he says, “Then we could question her.”

“Who should have aimed for the stomach?” John says, scowling down at the still warm corpse. 

“My sister.” Sherlock says, taking in the handcuffs, Two broken by bullets, one still intact.  
“She must have broken her wrist,” Mycroft says, looking down at the radiator with slight malice. 

“Yes.” Sherlock says, inhaling, “They aren’t here. But they’re alive. Lestrade, start looking for three teenage girls, similar looking, two in handcuffs, one with a broken wrist.”

**********************************************************************************************************************************

Molly says nothing as they get in the cab, just looks at him. 

“They won’t arrest her,” she says, “It was self defense.”

“She still killed someone.” Is all he says, remaining silent for the rest of the journey. 

**********************************************************************************************************************************

When they arrive back at Baker Street, Sherlock begins sticking pictures to the wall above the couch.

“You can have my bed for tonight. We’ll get Mycroft to arrange something in the morning.”

Molly sighs. “I’ll help. For tonight.” She takes a deep breath, “And I was thinking that I could stay here.”

Sherlock looks at her, hands stopping their movements. 

“It’ll be loud.”

“I know.”

“I’ll piss you off most of the time.”

“You do that already.”

“Mrs. Hudson won’t let you stay for nothing-“

“I pay more rent where I’m living right now, Sherlock.” She smiles, “But you already knew that.”

Sherlock smiles back at her, a small, content smile, and says, “Keep your cat away from my experiments.”

“Keep your experiments away from my cat.”

He laughs, and says, “We’ll start to move books out John’s old room tomorrow. Can you fetch me a file?”

Molly smiles, asks him which one, and settles into helping him for the night.

**********************************************************************************************************************************

“Thank god that’s over.” Tewky says, as Enola takes a twenty out of her bra to pay for the cab.

“What’re we doing now?” Cecily asks, hugging herself.

“We’re going to Culhane’s Used Clothing on Saint Tooking’s Lane, off Kipple Street,”

**********************************************************************************************************************************

Enola walks into the store as if she owns it (always works for Sherlock), throws 70 quid at Culhane, who’s hiding behind the counter, and asks for some clothing and a place to sleep for the night.

“Naw, naw, naw,” Culhane says, “I dinae hoose runooways, naw.”

“I’ll give you another 50 quid if you let me go to an ATM somewhere.” 

Culhane doesn’t trust her, that is plain, disheveled and homeless as she looks, but she comes out from behind the counter any way.

“There’s somethin’ in tha’ back.” She says, nodding, “Ya can goe in thare til’ mornin’, and then Im getting’ paid, or Ill shoot ya.”

Enola smiles, and guides the girls to the door at the back of the shop.

**********************************************************************************************************************************

They all manage to find something that fits, surprisingly- and Culhane lets them have a free run of the shop that night, so long as they don’t go anywhere near the till, and stay away from the windows so no one sees them.

It’s amazing what you can find out about a person from their clothing choices- Tewky heads towards leather jackets and smart shirts and trousers, and pairs them with a bowler hat and some worn boots- Makes the best of the situation, boyish, but good at putting things together- Cecily finds a dress, sixties style, bright red and white and spotty, and some blue high heels- Still living as though her mother is picking out her clothes, instead of going towards the comfy jumpers she keeps looking at from the corner of her eye.

And Enola- subconsciously- goes towards a blue, long, forties military jacket with gold buttons, finds a blue scarf- Not as nice as Sherlock’s, she thinks, too thin- and a hat she remembers seeing at one point- Before Sherry, it must have been- and when she looks at herself in the mirror next to Cecily and Tewky, she realizes that they’re going to draw more attention to themselves than necessary. Tewky looks like she’s channeling Amelia Earhart, Cecily like she’s stepped out of an issue sixties Vogue, and her like she’s cosplaying her fucking brother- but she finds she doesn’t care.

She leaves a drawing of a woman with bright red hair on the counter for the girls to find, and sneaks out of the shop, but not before she leaves 50 quid from the ATM down the road in the till for Culhane.


	6. People Help The People

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Enola finds a place to stay, Sherlock tackles Ikea furniture, and Mycroft lets someone go.
> 
> And this is the end of part one.
> 
> It's short, but i don't feel that the story will flow smoothly enough if I continue writing it in this particular way. Hope you like it :)

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Enola Song:
> 
> What'll I Do by April Smith and The Great Picture Show
> 
>  
> 
> Sherlock Song:
> 
> People Help The People by Birdy
> 
>  
> 
> Mycroft Song:
> 
> First Taste by Danielle Ate The Sandwich

She ends up in St. Bartholomew’s Hospital, (Uses the name Jennifer Eton, normal, insignificant, a thousand blonde girls with the same name), sitting in a room (Number 363, 20 paces from the stairs with her long legs, approximately 3 minutes away with the nurses and the patients and the family of dying people milling around) with her wrist in a cast, (The doctor made her stay over night- she’s “fallen down the stairs” and “might have concussion”).

All she could do was wait until the nurse that had been checking on her had gotten off of her shift (Bright eyes, no nurse that starts at 9 and finishes at 3 would look like that- started at 6 finishes at 10) so she could sneak out the window- wouldn’t cause to much trouble, people discharge themselves from hospitals all the time- she couldn’t risk leaving through the door, though, because she might be recognized by a police officer or someone could get a description of her and give it to her brothers- that was always a danger, no matter what she does. 

She sneaks down a back street, (Shouldn’t really, don’t know London well enough) and climbs over a wall, makes her way to an ATM, takes out 250 pounds, gets a taxi to another part of London, takes another 250 quid out, then goes to a bank, and takes out three thousand pounds- dangerous, she should have waited, but she needs to set herself up now- hotels are dangerous, streets are dangerous, cabs are dangerous, people are dangerous peoplepeoplepeople, and Tewky and Cecily know her name and what she looks like and how she speaks, and that’s sososo dangerous, but what is most dangerous is that she’s living in the same place her brothers are because she’s a fucking idiot. 

***********************************************************************

Molly slept in Sherlock’s bed that night, and woke up to him shouting at someone.

***********************************************************************

“SHE WAS RECOGNISED AT A HOSPITAL AND YOU DIDN’T DO ANYTHING!”

“THERE WAS NOTHING TO DO, SHERLOCK!” Mycroft takes a deep breath, “I have told my team to stop looking for her.”  
“What?!”

Mycroft stands up straighter, “I have decided to allow her to live as she wishes.”

“While there is a maniac who kidnapped her living as he wishes?”

“Yes.” Mycroft begins to leave the room, and Sherlock pushes him against the wall. 

“She is our sister, and you will find her.”

“She will not be found if she does not wish to be.”

“We have done so much to protect her, to look after her, and you are refusing to find her?”

Mycroft pushes back against Sherlock’s arm, demonstrating some of the training he’d gotten when he’d first joined the government.

“She is our sister. She will do as she pleases, just as we would.”

Sherlock turns and walks away from his brother, down the stairs, and stands at the door, unwilling to leave but ready to go.

***********************************************************************

Mycroft Holmes had never been good at dealing with emotions, but he would be lying if he said he didn’t know what his younger sibling was going through

He’d also be lying if he said that he didn’t know what Enola was feeling. And what his parents were feeling. And what fucking Moriarty was feeling. 

To be completely honest, he was better at dealing with emotions than he let on.

And that was why he’d stopped looking for Enola. And that was why he sat down and drank some of Molly Hooper’s tea rather than go down stairs and have another fight with his brother. 

“If you apologized, “ said Molly, “Then he might not punch you when he comes back up here.”

“If I apologized, I would be lying.”

Molly shakes her head, and smiles at the absurdity of her Holmes brothers. She wondered if their sister was the same. 

***********************************************************************

The flat was in the East End of London, one room with a fire, unfurnished. But it was 500 quid a month, which was cheaper than the 1000 she thought she was going to have to pay.

The landlady was deaf. Which was good, as she wouldn’t over hear anything she shouldn’t.

Her name was Mrs. Tummers, and she was an ex-nurse. 

It took Enola three days to find a mattress to sleep on and steal some blankets from downstairs, four to nick a laptop from a middle-aged man in Starbucks, and five to read a newspaper. 

“KIDNAPPER FOUND DEAD IN WAREHOUSE, VINETTE TEWKSBURY AND CECILY ALISTAIR RETURNED SAFELY HOME”

“When questioned about the death, the two girls told Scotland Yard (enquiry led by DI Lestrade) that she had been stabbed in the neck by one Enola Holmes, who has been confirmed to be the Consulting Detective Sherlock Holmes’ sister.

Where-ever this young girl is, her family have told us that she will not be prosecuted or held in anyway if she returns to them now.

Holmes is said to have blonde hair, blue eyes, a pale complexion, and a skinny, tall build. If seen you should contact Sherlock Holmes at 221b Baker Street, or call the police at 999.

In the East End of London, Enola Holmes sighs, grabs her coat, and leaves to search for a place that could provide her with a wig, contact lenses, and some other form of disguise.

***********************************************************************

“Did you really have to tell the papers about her, Sherlock?”

He sighs, puts down his paper, and says, “Yes. She will more easily found if the entirety of London is looking for her.”

“Criminals could also be looking for her!”

“I think it has been proven that our sister can take care of herself.”

“You weren’t saying that twenty minutes ago!”

Sherlock sighs again, looks to the ceiling, and remembers something.

“Has Molly already left?” he asks, standing.

Mycroft smirks. “She just got out the shower. Probably dressing now, I should think.”

Sherlock scowls, pushes him from the room, and tries not to think about the fact that there could be a naked pathologist in his room.

***********************************************************************

The sign read, “Pertelote’s”.

It wasn’t hard to find a costume shop in London. There were plenty of theaters, plenty of actors, plenty of people trying to hide. 

Shelves of sheet music lined the walls; second hand books piled in the corners; and the place was floor to ceiling in ways to hide.  
Wigs, makeup, everything.

“Can I ‘elp you?” says the big-boned woman standing behind the counter.

“Oh,” Enola says, “Yes, please, um…” she was not good at talking to people she couldn’t intimidate, a trait she shared with her brothers.

“I was wondering if you had anything to print cards with.” She said in a rush, looking towards a red wig in the corner.

“Oh, yes. Just write down what you want, I can print it in the back for you.” Pertelote says, gesturing towards a notebook and pen on the counter.

Enola walks towards, thinking.

Be careful, she thinks, Whatever you choose could be your life for the next two years.

Slowly, in a flowery writing not her own, she writes, Viola Everseau, Fashion Magazine Editor.

Pertelote takes the paper from her, motions for her to look at her wares, and bustles into the back of the shop.

***********************************************************************

It takes a few hours for him to move all the books from Molly’s new room, and it takes more than two hours to try and assemble the bed he’d had John drag from Ikea (“I’ve a wife who could give birth to my child at any moment, and you want me to go to Ikea?”) .

By the end of the day, he is exhausted, and surrounded by books that are most certainly not going in 221c (Damp and books don’t mix).

Molly arrives, smiling at him, before noticing the books on her way to the kitchen.

“Sherlock, did you really move all these yourself?” she says, looking at him with a mix of pride and sympathy in her eyes.

“Yes,” he says, smiling, “And there is a bed in your room, but unfortunately no cat. Apologies.” He cursed himself, of course she needs her cat now, and it must have shown on his face, but Molly Hooper doesn’t laugh at trivial worrying’s, instead walking to him, and holding her arms out.

It takes him a moment to melt into her, but a feeling of peace rolls over him, and he ends up pulling her onto the couch so they could continue without their legs hurting.

“Thank you.” She says after a while, and he knows it’s not just for the room, “And don’t worry about my cat. He’ll be fine until tomorrow.”

He snorts, pulls her closer, and hopes that she won’t leave anytime soon.

***********************************************************************

She doesn’t.

In the morning, he wakes to a hand in his hair, and a feeling of restfulness that doesn’t go away when she stands to make tea.


End file.
